CHAPTER 30: CHAPTER 30: DON’T COMPLAIN IF YOU DIE.

Oliver walked in a little stresse, tired. The heavy door swung shut with a soft click behind him.

The silence of the house pressed in, dim and still. He tugged at his tie, shoulders heavy with the weight of the day.

All he wanted was Athena, just her.

But no sign of her in the living room, though. The couch was empty, the lamp off. His lips tugged into a half-smile anyway, the kind that held exhaustion but also hunger. She’s probably in her room... waiting.

His mind wandered without permission. God, he just wanted to sink into her tonight. To pull her into his lap, bury his face against her neck, inhale her scent until he forgot every meeting, every cruel word, every scar the day had pressed into him. Sleep in her arms or maybe not sleep at all.

The thought grew dirtier, messier. He wouldn’t mind eating her out again, letting her thighs clamp around his head, tasting the sweetness that made him lose control last time. His cock stirred at the memory, his hand dragging across the back of his neck, a blush crawling over his tired face. Fuck, just the sound of her moaning my name again... that would fix everything. Just once more.

He groaned under his breath, jaw tightening as he pictured her mouth, her warmth, the way she looked when she came undone beneath him.

But then..

Something broke through his thoughts.

A smell.

Faint but sharp enough to cut through the hunger in his thoughts.

Like smoke. Burning.

Oliver’s head snapped up, his body stiffening as his nose flared. His eyes narrowed, the heat in his blood flipping from desire to alarm in an instant.

The kitchen.

His feet carried him there before his mind could even finish the thought. Fast, purposeful strides, the smell growing thicker with each step. His chest tightened.

And when he reached the doorway, his heart dropped because he had thought of the worst actually but to his surprise, his adorable doll was doing just fine. Maybe not really fine, but at least she’s alive.

"Athena."

The name slipped from Oliver’s tongue, soft, heavy with disbelief as his eyes swept over her body.

She whipped her head toward him, cheeks flushed even redder, like he’d caught her committing a crime.

And in a way, she had.

The kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the counters, the floor, and most of all her. The pan on the stove still hissed faintly from where something had burned beyond recognition. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and the faint sting of it hung in the air.

God. He almost lost it. She looked like she’d gone ten rounds of boxing with the kitchen itself and lost every single one.

But the thing that struck him wasn’t the mess. It was her face. Her lower lip stuck out in the tiniest pout, her brows pinched together, her nose scrunched like she was fighting the humiliation of it all. Her eyes bright, wide, glassy with tears she refused to let fall.

She wasn’t crying. But damn, she looked like she wanted to.

Oliver felt his exhaustion evaporate in a rush. He’d walked in wanting nothing more than to collapse, to bury himself in her warmth, maybe kiss her until he forgot the world or better yet, taste her again, drag his tongue over her until she broke apart in his arms. That alone had been enough to make his body hum with restless need.

But now? Watching her like this? Covered in flour, stubbornly standing her ground despite being a walking disaster?

It made something wicked curl in his chest.

He stepped further into the kitchen, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, studying her like she was a puzzle only he had the right to solve.

"What," he drawled slowly, voice dipped in a dangerous amusement, "exactly are you doing, Athena?"

Her eyes snapped to his, wide with indignation, as if the question itself was offensive.

"I was trying to cook for you," she blurted out, too quick, too defensive. Her hands fidgeted at her sides before she crossed her arms over her chest, flour smearing across her shirt. "You always come home tired, and...and I thought maybe I could..." Her voice trailed, cheeks blazing, "surprise you."

The corners of Oliver’s lips tugged into a dark smirk.

"Cook for me?" he echoed, his tone almost mocking. "That’s what this is?" He lifted his hand, gesturing lazily at the battlefield kitchen. "Because it looks like you tried to fight dinner, not make it."

Her mouth fell open, her blush deepening until it reached her ears. "Shut up! I tried, okay?!"

He chuckled low, finally letting the laugh slip, and the sound vibrated through the air, wrapping around her. His eyes didn’t leave her face as he closed the distance, his steps deliberate.

When he reached her, he bent slightly, his mouth near her ear, his breath warm against her flour-dusted skin.

"You’re lucky you’re cute when you fail." His voice dipped, rough with heat, laced with the dirtier thoughts he couldn’t swallow. "Otherwise, I’d have punished you for wasting my appetite."

Her body tensed, a sharp inhale giving her away. She turned her head toward him, her lips parting as if she wanted to snap back but the words died when she caught the look in his eyes.

That heavy, dark stare that said he wasn’t just talking about food.

Her breath hitched.

He straightened, dragging his thumb across her cheek as he winked at her as a seductive smirk played on his lips. "So tell me, Athena..." His smirk widened. "Should I eat what you made... or just eat you instead?"

Athena froze at his words, her lips parting in disbelief.

"W–what?!" She practically squeaked, her hands flying up to cover her face, smearing more flour across her cheeks in the process. Her wide eyes peeked at him through her fingers. "Oliver! You can’t just say things like that!"

He leaned in closer, his smirk deepening at her reaction. "Why not? It’s true." His voice dipped lower, deliberate, as if savoring her every flustered face. "The only thing I’m hungry for right now is standing in front of me, covered in flour, pretending to know how to cook."

Her mouth dropped open again, and she smacked his chest with her flour-coated hand. The white print stuck to his shirt, but he didn’t even blink, he just laughed, the sound low and rough.

"You’re unbelievable," she muttered, turning her face away, her ears glowing red. She tried to scowl, but the way her lips pouted only made her look cuter, and Oliver’s eyes burned with the effort of not pinning her against the counter right then.

"Unbelievable?" he teased, leaning close enough that his nose nearly brushed hers. "That’s what you call the man who comes home wanting nothing but to taste you, and finds you waiting in his kitchen, messy and perfect?"

Athena’s breath hitched audibly. She shoved at him half-heartedly, but her voice betrayed her. "S–stop saying things like that! I was just... I was trying to do something nice for you, idiot!"

Oliver grinned like a wolf who’d cornered his prey. He caught her wrist gently, tugging her flour-dusted hand away from her face so he could see her blush in full. His thumb brushed over her skin, and he whispered with a wicked edge.

"You did, sweetheart. You made my night."

Athena’s lips trembled between wanting to smile and wanting to yell at him. Her cheeks burned hotter and she quickly tried to wriggle free.

But he didn’t let go. Not yet.

Athena puffed her cheeks out, glaring at him with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn pride. "Fine! If you’re so hungry, then eat this."

She spun around, grabbed the charred pan from the stove, and plunked it onto the counter in front of him with a dramatic thunk. The smell of burnt food filled the kitchen, heavy and smoky.

Oliver stared at it. Then back at her. Then at it again.

"So...this is what almost burned down my kitchen huh?" His lips twitched, caught between laughter and disbelief.

Athena folded her arms, her chin lifting stubbornly. "Yes. And you’re going to eat it. Every bite. Every bit of it."

That was it, he couldn’t hold back anymore. A sharp laugh broke free from his chest, and he leaned against the counter, covering his face with one hand. "You’re serious? Athena... sweetheart... this isn’t food. This is arson."

She smacked his arm with a flour-coated hand again. "Shut up! I worked hard, okay?! You’re not allowed to laugh!"

He caught her wrist mid-swing, his grin lazy but wicked. "Then feed me."

Her breath caught. "...What?"

"Feed me." He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that dangerous, husky tone that always made her knees weak. "If you want me to eat it, then put it in my mouth yourself."

Athena’s face went crimson. She sputtered, "Y–you’re disgusting!" but he only tilted his head, waiting, daring her.

Biting her lip, she grabbed a fork, stabbed the least-burnt piece, and shoved it toward his mouth. "Fine. Don’t complain if you die."

Author’s thought: Like he would be alive to complain. He would be having a conversation with G-O-D by then, for all his sins.

He smirked, his eyes never left hers as he chewed, making a show of it. Then he swallowed, dragged his tongue across his lower lip, and whispered, "Not half as bad as I thought."